THE PARAGON JOURNAL BLOG 

March 23, 2018

The swing set of her eyes

were the swirling

starless centers

of galaxies;

an immaculate void,

a violin

without a violinist.

Below sat blood

red tulips, churning

(glib and moist),

contemplating

bloom,

and sure enough,

spread.

Where would be a neck

stood a grumpy

old curmudgeon,

a walkin...

March 22, 2018

I was robbed of my youth. In my youth

I was mugged while my father watched, watched

us get shot

out of the chapel (as it were) by a canon.

The Flocks

(gathered on the hill) muttered sheepish prayers;

now they say they want to arm the teachers—

maybe pay them

extra, give them b...

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ISSN 2470-3834 (online)

ISSN 2470-7775 (print)